


The Kiss

by Santillatron



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, POV Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:35:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25675213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Santillatron/pseuds/Santillatron
Summary: The angel's acting weird and Crowley doesn't know why, until he takes steps to curtail the sudden compliments and it all becomes apparent.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 121





	The Kiss

**Author's Note:**

> This was one of those things that just appears out of nowhere and sits in the front of your brain until you write it down, and seeing as it doesn't fit into anything else I'm writing at the moment you might as well have it. 
> 
> Short and sweet.

“Ngk”

Aziraphale was gently stroking Crowley’s cock through his trousers. 

It has started earlier over dinner, coy glances, tempting words, Aziraphale touching him more than he’d ever done before. It made him jittery. 

And then once they were back at the bookshop with wine in hand the compliments had started. He’d called Crowley _nice._ He’d called him _thoughtful._ Ok so maybe he was, but that was no reason to go calling him out on it. 

‘You’re such a sweetheart’ had been the last straw so now here they are, Crowley’s hands fisted into Aziraphale’s jacket, pressing him into the end of one of the bookcases, and he should be snarling right now but Aziraphale’s hand is definitely stroking his cock. Maybe. It’s so light that it could just be him wringing his hands like he often di-

But he’s looking at Crowley’s mouth. Looking and licking his lips, all impossibly pink and wet and just barely parted. And Crowley is stuck. 

He has a choice. To kiss or not to kiss. To pull away or to chase that mouth that he’s craved to taste for centuries, millennia even. He looks at Aziraphale’s lips, at the faint flush that sits on his cheekbones, at his eyes locked on Crowley's mouth, black holes surrounded by pale blue coronas as everything gets sucked in. 

What has he got to lose? _My only ally. My only friend._

But what have you got to gain?

_Everything…_

Crowley’s dithered too long. Spent too long second guessing and asking questions, always with the questions, and now the angel has leaned through the minimal gap that they’ve always maintained and pressed hesitant lips to a demon’s and they’re so soft. So soft and perfect and they taste of the tiramisu he had for pudding, creamy with a dark undertone of coffee, and it tastes wonderful against the jasmine and leather smell that Crowley’s come to associate with tartan bow ties. 

But now Aziraphale’s pulling away and Crowley can’t let him go, not now, probably not ever. So he follows him. Recaptures that sweet mouth with his own, more accustomed as it is to smirking and cutting retorts than pressing softly to angelic lips, so he doesn’t. He dives in with a force that he’s kept at bay for over a hundred lifetimes and the angel simply parts his lips and welcomes him in. 

And Crowley is still gripping his jacket, holding him, pressing him into the solid wood of the bookshelf. Except it’s not the bookshelf now, it’s soft cotton, pocket springs, memory foam, and he’s not sure which one of them did it but the angel must definitely be aware by now of the solidity of Crowley's trousers, and what's more, he's got one too. 

And Crowley feels like he’s being devoured, that divine tongue so used to manoeuvring food now lavishing affection on his mouth and…

And now there’s stout hands on his arse and they're gripping him and pulling him in like it's destiny and he goes willingly, oh so willingly into the night behind his eyelids, where the two of them can do this without any fear of repercussions. 

Repercussions. 

He pulls back. It’s too dangerous, too risky for them both. Even if heaven and hell have promised to leave them alone, Aziraphale will Fall for this. 

But the angel is following him, pushing off his jacket, nearly tearing off his own in his quest to get closer.

“Angel, we… you… you’ll Fall…” He tries. 

“Then you’ll catch me, just like you’ve been doing for thousands of years.” 

And how can he argue with that? 

As Aziraphale pulls him back into another kiss that feels like a supernova, all hot and bright and too much to comprehend in one go, he realises... they’re going to be ok. 

Because _this_ is ‘our side’, and he will **never** let it go. 


End file.
